


Now Listening

by momopichu



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momopichu/pseuds/momopichu
Summary: Prompt & Drabbles. Request a song and a type (fantasy/horror/smut/comfort/etc.) or a word.Pairings optional (Currently only available for Overwatch, Dragon Age 1/2/Inquisition and Mass Effect 1/2/3/Andromeda).Requests can be made in the comments or at momopichu.tumblr.com





	1. Rockabye (OW: Symbra)

**Author's Note:**

> Song: < Rockabye (feat. Sean Paul & Anne-Marie), Clean Bandit >  
> Prompt: “Listen, listen. You are going to be okay. He/She is locked away for good, alright.”  
> From: Mysdrym

“Listen to me Satya. You are going to be okay. He’s being locked away for good.”

Satya nodded mutely, six years and counting, clad in morose brown rags, her crude attempt at making a sari, as she watched her father led away by authorities. Gently, her mother soothed a hand down her black hair, so strong, even with the rain streaming down her own silken black hair, soaking her ochre orange sari to beautiful brown skin. Satya could only imagine being her, the pillar standing tall in all this chaos, the shining light, the one that made everything fall into place with but a wave of tapering fingers and a gentle voice.

Her little fingers twisted in the scratchy material of her mother’s skirt, tugging. The woman smiled, so kind, so soft, to lift little Satya up into her arms. She was given a kiss on each cheek, a boop of nose to nose, a firm press of foreheads together.

“Listen to me Satya. No one’s going to hurt you.”

She began rocking to and fro, small dips and graceful twirls to silent drums.

“I’m going to give you all my love. Nobody matters much like you.”

Sway to the harsh winds, a dance to shame the rains.

“Your life won’t be like my life.”

Satya clung tightly, resting her head against rigid shoulders.

“You’re going to grow and have a good life.”

Satya closed her eyes, a thumb against her lips.

“I’m going to do what I have to do.”

And she fell asleep.

* * *

 

“Listen to me Satya. You are going to be okay. He’s being locked away for good.”

Satya nodded mutely, fifteen and counting, clad in a pristine form-fitting dress of white and purple, as she watched her mother’s murderer led from the podium. He was screaming, spitting wretched words about the woman who had been her pillar, her beacon. He called her a _whore_ , a _bitch_ , and so many other coarse words that scratched the inside of her skull, that buzzed with uncomfortable heat between her fingers and under her skin. Quietly, slowly, she put her hands over her ears, and with measured grace huddled down over her chair so that she could place her head between her knees.

Comfortable. Just darkness, and silence. No callous shouts of harsh words, no messy knotted clothes and splattered blood.

“Satya.”

She counted to herself, from one to ten, voice light.

“Vishkar would like to discuss a proposal.”

Her eyes opened and lifted her head. The face before her was kind, shapes and lines meticulously spaced, organized. A perfect symmetry.

“My name is Sanjay Korpal.”

She counted the numbers, measured the distances, the beat of her heart rhythmic against the hands she held over her ears.

“Would you like to learn how to be an Architect?”

She could hear footsteps around her, of people coming, of people going. And yet the man before her stayed.

“Your life won’t be like their life.”

He stretched both hands out to her, square, rigid.

“You would live the good life.”

No disorder. No chaos. Only harmony.

“We’ll do what we have to do.”

And she took his hands.

* * *

 

“Listen to me Satya. You are going to be okay. He’s being locked away for good.”

Satya did not nod. Instead she stared, twenty-eight and counting, clad in a stylish blue sari tailored specifically to her tastes and to her form, as Sanjay was led away, seething and snarling, from the building. Quietly, she closed her eyes. Quietly, she counted to ten. Quietly, she measured all the distances, oriented all the shapes, carved all the lines. And yet, that did not stop the tears from falling from her eyes.

“I am not okay.” she whispered.

Before her, the woman with eyes of deep amethysts, who wears coats and stockings of harsh purples and neon blues, waited.

“They told me no one would hurt me.”

Three steps forward. Slide up, and dip. Toes pointed and hands soft.

“They told me nobody matters like me.”

An arm to the air, a wing to soar her to the heavens. The other to the earth, a root to keep her grounded.

“That my life would not be like their life.”

A twist and twirl, firm steady steps against a maelstrom.

“Because I would live the good life.”

Stop. Rigid fingers tender against the other woman’s cheek. Sombra was her name. _Oh_ , how she looked at Satya, not like her mother once did, not like Sanjay ever does. Like she could paint the position of the stars in her steps, like she could craft the flow of waves with each sway of her hand, with each count of her dance.

“I know what I have to do.”

_A boop of nose to nose, a press of foreheads together._

And a kiss to seal the deal.

xxx


	2. lit (var) (OW R76)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: lit (var), Shape of Light/A Silent Voice (Kensuke Ushio)  
> Pairing: R76  
> Fandom: Overwatch  
> The original first draft ending to Russian Roulette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter summary reads, this was the first written ending (now a discarded draft) for Russian Roulette and was supposed to be 'angst' only.  
> In regards to the other chapters, this would have taken place after chapter 5.  
> I didn't feel like deleting it and felt it best to keep it for future reference or experience, so have some feels and enjoy ^_^

For years to come, Lena would visit the graves.

She would put a doll before Ana’s.

She would put a small vase of snowdrops before Gabriel’s.

But she would always leave Jack’s bare.

And yet she always kept in mind where she could find the Tassel of a Corn plant if she really needed it. So she stayed, carried on life as usual, seeking answers and doing what she could for those in need. She couldn’t save everyone, but she continued to try, mistakes were made, but each one she overcame like climbing the rungs of a ladder. People died, but when she took out the Mauser once more, polishing it’s side with an oiled cloth, repainting it’s silver ferns with careful hands, and making sure it’s lone bullet was still where it was supposed to be… Lena would remind herself that she had a reason to be here. That the world had saw something in her that was worth keeping alive, and one day she would find out what that reason was.

So she kept living, falling in love, holding them and her friends close. And as the days turned to nights and the stars continued to pave a way through the night sky, Lena knew she would be right where she needed to be when the time came.

* * *

 

For Jack, the stars became his saving grace. Without the Mauser by his side, he spent the nights alone tracing the constellation with his eyes, repainting all the pinpricks of light in his mind with an accuracy permitted only by a perfectionist. When night gave way to day, he would move, steady steps taking him across the land as he searched for answers. Each mission to retrieve intel, each terrorist, thief, gang member put down was a step in the right direction, a step to find the reason why he was still alive when all those other names crossed out in a book in his safehouse were dead and gone.

Time passed, he gave up his name in favour of the moniker ‘Soldier: 76’. A reminder that that was what he once was, and what he ever was.

Time passed, he realised that despite the amount of death he had witnessed, life was still permitted to pass. And as the little girl ran back to her mother with a poster of his face and a bag of flour hugged to her chest, he gave himself a soft pat on the back.

Time passed, he traveled, and old friends reappeared. He found Ana and Gabriel again in Egypt. The former a little worse for wear but still going strong, while the latter had lost all sense of self, called himself the Reaper and embarked on a journey for revenge.

And even though he had found them again, and even though neither were happy to see him, the little knot that had stayed all this time in his heart, began to unravel.

 _Relief_.

For the first time in so, _so_ many years, the feeling came to burn it’s way through his chest, rendering him almost breathless and the Soldier would cry between barking laughs, welcoming it in like a stranded man would do a ship. Because he realised, that for _once_ he was not alone _,_ for _once_ he was not the last man standing, and it was a saving grace. So when he returned to his safe house much later, once the tomb of a pharaoh, surrounded on all four sides by unwavering stone walls, he would rewrite both Ana and Gabriel’s names in his book, unfold the photo he kept over his heart and whisper prayers to Gods he did not believe in to save both his friends. Because even after everything that had happened to him; the deaths, the pains, the heartbreak, the things he had been so previously been blind to, and even though he himself did not deserve anything he was about to say…

He believed that even the dead deserved to be brought home.

* * *

 

_“Jackie!”_

_Jack perked his head up from where he had been wrapping a bandage around a wounded patient’s leg. Smith was waving at him from outside the open tent that belonged to the medics, the soldier was covered in soot, dirt,_ blood _. But even as the blond watched, the weary soldier casually lit a stick of cigarette and lifted it to his lips to take a puff. When he was done, Smith gestured again, beckoning Jack to come to him. With a whispered apology to his patient and a brief word with a colleague, Jack puttered his way out of the tent, wiping bloody hands on his apron as he did so._

_He found Smith and his squad just waiting a little ways away, the men and women were lounging or lying over packed duffel bags or against crates filled full of supplies. With a brief shake, Jack found himself turning to face Smith._

_“Hey kid,” Smith grinned “How’s it going?”_

_As an answer, Jack smooshes his head into the soldier’s chest and wraps his arms around the other’s waist, ignoring the way Smith’s fellow squad explode in cooes and awws. He buries his head tighter against holsters and kevlar armour as he feels the weary soldier hesitate, then slowly wrap his arms around his shoulders._

_“Hey...Jackie,” Smith puffs around his cigarette. “Come on now, I’m still here ain’t I?”_

_Jack mutters something in reply, his voice muffled by too many layers of cloth._

_Smith chuckles before firmly pushing the boy back. Jack keeps his eyes downcast but Smith can see the way his eyes glimmer, the way his hands shake. As silent encouragement, he taps the boy’s chin, making Jack look at him. The soldier than cocks his own chin out and squares his shoulders, Jack mimics him, swallowing down the sniffle as he does._

_“Guess I can’t keep calling you a kid if you gotta be a man,” Smith drawled, abruptly his smile fades and he reaches out to hold Jack’s shoulder. “Did you practice what I been teachin’ ya?”_

_Jack nods._

_“Did you remember to keep your elbows in this time?”_

_Jack nods again._

_“Good man.” He ruffles the blond’s hair and Jack takes his treatment with a trembling grin. “Listen to your superiors now. Me’n the gang have to move, we’re heading South East.” Smith hesitates, fumbling for words. “Might not come back this way, what with going where we’re needed.” Jack’s eyes are falling again but Smith directs them back to his face with a gentle hand. “Hey Jackie, don’t look so glum. Look here, I’ll make you a deal. The next time we meet, whether it be in the afterlife or when this war’s over, I’ll take you to a bar alright?”_

_“But I’m underaged!” Jack protested, wiping a suddenly runny nose._

_“Now see, that’s the fun of it.” Smith smiled. “If it’s after this war’s over, no one will care about your age. And if it’s in the afterlife? Who cares about age!”_

_A soft, genuine laugh escaped Jack._

_“There see!” Smith abruptly bellowed. “That’s the boy I rescued!” He grabs Jack, pulling the growing boy into a hug. “You take care now Jack, stay safe.”_

First Lieutenant John Smith, US army. Died to a stray bullet in his side. Smith saved the lives of countless children on the US front and left behind a wife and two children.

* * *

 

Soldier: 76 wrapped the bandage around his torso with slow, methodical strokes, feeling the soft linen material against the pads of his fingers as he continued to work. Finished, he scrutinized the nails on his hands, colored black and blue from the clots of blood that had gathered. The more he watches, the more his hand shakes, but he doesn’t let that deter him.

Patiently, he puts aside the medkit. Steadily, he wraps his fingers around the pen. There is nothing but the dust in the tomb to bear witness but he still hesitates. He knows who he wishes to write to, but he does not know how. But like everything else, it comes unbidden, like a drop in a large pond, sending ripples across its mirrorlike surface.

He thinks of his new name.

He thinks of the little girl.

He thinks of Ana and Gabriel.

And he writes.

 

* * *

 

_“Major Morrison!”_

_Jack looked up form where he had been scribbling in his notebook. A colossal man in armour was lumbering his way towards him. The suit was a beautiful ebony bronze adorned with gold linings and ferns, on emblems situated on large shoulder pauldrons and a loincloth of royal blue, a soaring eagle of pearl white had been placed._

_“Balderich!” Jack greeted, getting to his feet._

_The German general pulled the smaller man into a hug, lifting Jack off his feet to be swung around. He laughs a loud boisterous laugh when the smaller soldier squeaks from the sheer force of being nearly crushed._

_“Good to see you friend,” he finally says, putting Jack down on his feet. His voice is a low timbre, they remind the soldier of organs, of sounds that vibrate through the earth like whale songs. “I hear it was your people that helped the German soldiers in the forest skirmish.”_

_Jack shrugged. “Gabriel had a feeling, we just acted on it.”_

_Balderich nods solemnly, it is then that Jack sees the morose eyes that peek through the holes of the helmet and he swallows. With a large gauntleted hand, the leader of the Crusader gently pats Jack on the shoulder._

_“If you would be so kind,” Balderich begins. “Send my regards to your Commander, tell him I say thank you for the lives of our men...and that I apologise, for not speaking to him directly.”_

_“Balderich…”_

_“I do not have much time, our intel tells me that the omnics are knocking on Eichenwalde’s doorstep.” He leans forward then, voice hushed but clear. “I am taking a group of my Crusaders to the village to flank them. While I do so, you must get Gabriel to lead the survivors out of this place.”_

_“But- ”_

_“Under Eichenwalde castle is a vast network of underground dungeons, once used by servants and the royalty that lived here, now it will be your means of escape.”_

_“Balderich!” Jack protested._

_But he is silenced as the General pulls him into another hug, tight, brief. Jack returns it as best as he can, blunt nails clawing scratches into the scarred plate of the armour. He thinks that if he scrunches his eyes hard enough, that if he holds onto the other man for long enough…_

_“Tell my boy Reinhardt that a shield is nothing without it’s sword,” Balderich whispered. “He is strong but he is also naive; he wills stand facing a thousand bastions without wondering who will ever beat them down. Look after him for me Jack. I leave him in your care.”_

_They part, and as Balderich holds Jack’s hand in his large gauntleted ones, the soldier gives a curt not to show that he understood. The old German General’s eyes crinkle up at the corners, an indication that he was smiling under his helmet before he was standing, retrieving his large two-handed hammer, and turning to a group of his armoured men._

_As an afterthought, Balderich turns and waves his hammer at Jack in a one handed salute. Jack returns in kind, punching the air with a closed fist._

General Balderich von Adler, leader of the German Crusaders. Died by internal bleeding due to a collapse in his armour plates. Balderich and his men held the line long enough for civilians and the injured to evacuate and for reinforcements to storm Eichenwalde castle and it’s village.

 

* * *

 

Soldier: 76 carefully slipped off his glove. On his palm, blotches of ochre red and yellows bloom like dappling flowers. Smoothly, he slid off his jacket as well. In the mirror, he can see the precarious mix of colours turn a rippling purple, peeking out from around the neckline and the sleeve of his shirt. Carefully, he drifts a finger across the patchwork of bruises like he once did needle marks in a facility now long gone. They don’t heal anymore. He should know, they’ve been there for the past year.

But he doesn’t let the sight drag him down, instead he retrieves a hastily sealed letter from his pocket. For a moment he glides his fingers over the thin and flimsy package, before slipping his fingers under and breaking the seal. The letter itself is brief, but bubbly. Written in a hand that curved, yet broke off in the most abrupt places. He grins as the paper tells of its writer’s wellbeing, of its adventures and its sights. Finally, it tells him of a place.

And a time.

 

* * *

 

_“Strike-Commander.”_

_Jack twists, internally readying himself for the scolding he was about to receive. He was instead surprised when a bag of food was shoved into his face, the smell of burger and fries strong from where it hung a hair away from his nose. His stomach grumbles a feeble plea at the scent, left mostly empty as it had been for the past week._

_“Um...Gérard?” Jack stammered, ignoring the way his stomach clenched in protest._

_The Frenchman quashes the bag of food into Jack’s face despite his indignant squawk, forcing the blond to catch the bag or risk losing either his face or the food. When finally he had the food away from his nose and was adamantly wiping his face, Gérard turned to him._

_“I heard what you did.” Gérard said. His voice was quiet and Jack had to strain to hear him, the Frenchman keeps his eyes distant, gazing through the wall of glass that separated them from the medical room on the other side._

_Laying still on a bed was Gérard’s wife, Amélie, just recovered from her Talon kidnapping. The woman was unconscious, bruised, bloodied and her skin carried an unnatural bluish hue. Angela and her assistants were busily scampering around the bed, running scans and tending to her many injuries. Jack remained quiet, his eyes downcast, he allows the grease from the bag of food soak his hands._

_“What’s with the long face?” Gérard asked._

_“Nothing,” Jack murmured._

_He had but a second to detect the swift quirk of the Frenchman’s brow before he was wrenched down into a headlock by Gérard, hands flailing as he tried to keep a hold on the bag of food and at the same time trying to pry the other man from around his neck._

_“Hey!”_

_“Come on Jackie! Cheer up!” Gérard exclaimed, twirling the pinned blond around. “How the hell am I supposed to say thank you if you keep looking like you’ve walked into a morgue?”_

_“You want to…” Jack trailed off._ Say thank you? _He had probably heard wrongly, there was no way-_

_“Ah-ah!” Gérard chirps, tapping Jack on the forehead, he stops spinning them but keeps the blond in a headlock as he speaks. “I know what’s going on in that thick head of yours-”_

_“It’s not thick-”_

_“- So listen here Jackie,” Gérard continues as if Jack had not just interrupted him. “_ Thank you _. You didn’t have to, but you went against the UN’s orders and rescued Amélie.” His voice softens.”Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me.”_

_Unable to form a response, Jack just shrugs as Gérard releases him. The bag of food is rumpled in his hands and he stares at them in favour of looking anywhere else._

_“Jack, hey.” Gérard taps his shoulder, forcing the blond to look up. The Frenchman’s dark brown eyes are soft, kind, the hint of tears sharp at the corners. With a trembling smile, he salutes Jack. “I want you to know that no matter what… I will always remember this. You’re a good friend Jackie, keep fighting the good fight.”_

_Jack returned the salute, smiling._

Gérard Lacroix, demolitions expert and founding member of Overwatch. Died a week later in his sleep, twin needle marks were found in his neck resembling that of a bite. Gérard served in the Omnic Crisis and after it’s conclusion spent the remainder of his life saving innocents from the wrath of Talon.

 

* * *

 

Soldier: 76 absentmindedly poked at the wisp of cloud that danced before his eyes, formed of frigid night air and hot breath. He plays with it like a cat might a bur, prodding it and drawing shapes in the air. No one pays him any mind, passing in mists of colour that blur like lights in a puddle. They talk about their own days, mutter about problems and people. Sometimes he hears the shout of the drunk, other times he hear the laugh of the merry. But he ignores them much like how they had done him. Instead he watches the lightest fall of rain, with droplets like pearls in a fog, cling to his cheek and perch on his lashes. They spiral to land on the stone railing he leans o  


* * *

 

Soldier: 76 carefully lifted his shirt to his nose and took a small whiff. The scent of blood was strong and he had to stop himself from recoiling in disgust. He had known what he would find, he just… hadn’t expected it to be so severe. The bruises on his body had spread, covering the broad expanse of his chest, some had even taken on a darker crimson colour, drawing curling tendrils across his skin as if it were a canvas. Heaving a sigh, he tossed the shirt aside to be burnt later and changed into a new one. He throws on the cologne until even under the filters of his mask, he can smell the chokingly fragrant scent of whatever youngsters liked nowadays. Taking one last chance to look himself over in the mirror, he leaves his safe house and meanders his way onto the streets of London.

The darkening sky is cut through now and then by bright spotlights and the occasional skyway filled with bustling hovercars, there are no stars here but he knows the way. With a single thought in mind, 76 wends his way through the streets until he finds the meeting place.

Lena waves at him from the stone railings of the ageless bridge. The same cheery smile, the same bright colours that always seemed to glow against the darkness. Soldier walks up to her, the picture of a casual tourist before taking a place beside her, leaning over the stones to look out over the River Thames. The city lights shift and mix in a precarious dance on the water, broken only by the trails of boats that drift across it’s surface. For a moment, neither speak, content in the muted chatters and bustles of a busy city.

“It’s good to see you again,” Lena cautiously ventures.

“You’re looking well,” Soldier returns.

“What’s with the cologne?” Lena asked.

The weary man tilts his head and spreads his hands in a noncommittal answer that has the younger woman chuckling behind her hand.

“I’m sure you don’t smell _that_ bad,” Lena grins.

“Try staying in dingy safe houses all the time without access to hot showers.” As if he would tell her about the constant stench of blood that clings to him.

“Alright alright!” she giggles. “So, how long are you staying in town?”

“Not long,” Soldier hums. “Talon’s going after an omnium just inside the Russian border.”

“Oh...that’s no good,” the girl taps her fingers on the stone railings. “Is Gabriel going to be there?”

“Most likely.”

If he was allowed, the Soldier would say he thinks this is better than all the letters exchanged in dingy corners or in abandoned letter boxes. He had confided in Lena many things over the past few years, the young girl’s encouragement, written in broken curvy blue pen, could only do so much when he was sat alone in a starless room. Dimly, he thinks it strange that although time is with Lena, _they_ never seem to have enough... _time_. Every minute was a rush, every second was was a grain of sand trickling through aged fingers. Even this was supposed to be brief. He wonders if he will remember this later on.

“Winston’s been in contact with the Russian military,” Lena hummed, drawing him from his thoughts. “They say the omniums there are highly volatile. One wrong move could release the quarantined God programs.”

Soldier ruffles his own hair in a frustrated gesture. “Talon never picks anywhere nice to go. It’s always either some old base covered in dirt or some high tech facility that will start shooting the moment someone breathes in it’s direction.”

Another bubbly giggle escaped Lena. “Like you used to say - no rest for the weary.”

“Hah.”

They lapse into comfortable silence. Somewhere in town, a fiddle starts playing, elsewhere, the boisterous laughter of the drunk. Rain starts as a soft drizzle, before growing to patter harshly against the stone bridge. Neither Lena nor Soldier move, taking the cold English weather in stride. As people rush for shelter around them, the weary man turns to the younger girl.

“Lena, did you…” he hesitates, twisting his hands before him. “Did you bring what I asked?”

“Yeah.” She pauses, rifles through the bag that hangs limp at her side, pulling out an orange box tied with a bright blue ribbon. When Soldier reaches to take it, Lena jerks the box back from his fingers. His quirked eyebrow (hidden under his visor) is met with the girl’s unrelenting glare. “If I give you this… you need to promise me that you’ll come back.”

“Lena- ”

“ _Promise me_ ,” she hissed.

“I-” Could he promise her? _Should_ he even? “Lena...I can’t promise you that.”

The girl’s downtrodden expression is framed by her wet hair drooping around her face, the wide eyes that tremble and the downturned lip that shakes. Instead of reaching for the box, Soldier pulls the young girl into a hug, rough hands patting her trembling back.

“I can’t promise you that I’ll come back… but I’ll do my best to.”

He can feel the way she relents as her shoulders sag and the way her previously limp hands come to return the hug, digging deep into his bruised body. She returns his grip as best as she can manage before they part. She gives him the box.

He nods once, ruffles her hair and as he is about to leave, he remembers something.

“Lena.”

“Yeah?” The girl does a half-turn, she is soaked to her skin and he can’t tell if she’s crying or if the moisture on her cheek is nothing but the rain.

“Do you remember what you said, about waiting?”

Lena arches a brow, but she nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“It was worth it. Thank you.”

He salutes her, and the smile she gives him in return could have put the sun to shame.

* * *

 

The Soldier would forever remember the last time he handled the Mauser. Newly polished, a gleaming ebony black, it’s box chamber as new and rigid as the first time he had handled it. His finger traced the ridges of the box chamber, felt the hard angular piece of the hammer while his eye focused on the pointed nub soldered to the end of the muzzle, an aiming aid. The auburn wooden handgrip had been cleaned, it’s silver unfurling ferns repainted. The trigger and it’s own embellishments glowed with it’s own light, the smoothed curve of it still made just for his finger. He reminded himself to thank Lena the next time he saw her, the effort she had gone to keep the Mauser in working order must have cost her, what with the gun itself being two hundred years past it’s prime.

 _Fitting_ , he thinks. With how old he is, it is good that something so old can still look so sharp, so deadly.

At the back of his mind, he _does_ wonder if he will ever see her again. He is dimly aware of the blood that trickles between his fingers and around the folds of his coat. He is aware, of the soft and slow beat of his heart in his neck, the prickling needle-like cold that starts from the tip of his fingers and toes and crawling ever so slowly up his limbs.

He is also aware, of someone shouting. The voice raspy, but still familiar, trying to reach him as he raises the Mauser. But he cannot hear the words, nor can he hear the thunderous steps of the machines anymore. There was ever only him, and the Mauser. So he counts to five.

 _One_.

The hammer slides into place with barely a click, so well oiled and smooth in it’s actions.

 _Two_.

He sees fire and light, they burn, all harsh and hot against his skin, against the back of his eyes. But at the same time he feels ice and cold, spiralling snowflakes that dance and perch softly on his lashes.

 _Three_.

He can feel his battered coat slapping at his sides, the way his knees shake with what is to come. The tip of the muzzle that trembles in his hands, he takes a deep breath to steady it.

 _Four_.

His Pulse-Rifle, his visor, his biotic fields, he thinks of them and how they have equally aided him, and how they have left, leaving him with what he had started with all those many years ago when a determined soldier named Smith pulled him out of a blood-soaked barn.

... 

He’s never gotten this far to be honest. It surprises him a little even as blue eyes track the spiraling snowflakes waltzing in the air. They are like little stars he thinks; he wonders if their fleeting existence here on earth is the same as the stars hanging above in the night sky.

 _Five_.

He can’t hear, not really, as if someone had whited out all noise, leaving a high pitched whiney that shrieked on and on and on. But as he pulls down on the Mauser’s trigger, he didn’t need his ears to feel the slam of the hammer as the single silver bullet was ejected. The small weapon shook with all the force of a crashing car, punching against the palm of his hand and scoring a nasty bruise in the patch of skin between thumb and index finger.

And then he was falling.

And he was hearing.

“ _J A C K!_ ”

* * *

 

It starts as little nodules of colours. Like light that bursts in brief flickers through the lense of a film-movie projector, accompanied by the curious _clicks_ and _clacks_ as it scrolls through the frames.

Then comes the pictures. The first is a battered olive green tent, a flag of white with a red cross flutters outside, strong despite the dusty winds and morose atmosphere. There is a man in the frame, surrounded by his squad as he ruffles the hair of a young boy with gold hair and blue eyes.

The second is a barracks, with two neatly lined rows of beds. A boy barely past the age of eighteen sits with another young man. Their mouths move as they talk about something but no sound can be heard. The darker man stretches a hand out to the boy and they make a handshake that involves the brushing of fingers and fist bumps.

The film stutters, breaks, reorients itself with little pauses of its _clacks_ , no longer as methodical.

The third image is still. A white wall filled from ceiling to floor in wavering pencil lines and smudged speckled dots. There are words beside some of the pinpricks - stars - naming them, telling their story.

The fourth sways as if the person holding the camera is walking. It’s downcast, focused on interlocked hands as dark fingers tug at pale ivory ones, leading them down a blindingly white tiled corridor.

The film catches on a stubborn piece, it whirs in protest, grinds and kicks until the flow is back and the pictures continue to come.

They move faster now, sound flowing in and out as if heard through a curtain of water. There are flashes of faces, some kind, others harsh, some of flesh, others of metal. He sees a young boy with a stetson hat, a girl tying angel wings to her back, a cyborg with glowing eyes of red brandishing a sword with a jagged edge, he sees a tall man dancing with a lady wearing ballerina shoes. He latches onto the image of a gigantic man in shining armour, his - very - shorter friend with a large beard and a metal claw for a hand.

Then he sees a one-eyed woman with beautiful greying hair coiled in a graceful braid. The lines on her face are weary but her hands are steady around the rifle she favours. He knows in her pocket she carries a holoprojector with the image of her child, he knows the tattoo under her eye is a symbol of protection.

The image flares out in a burst of colours and then he is watching a girl with a blue light around her body leaping through the air. Her smile is bright, her hair is wild, he can hear the way she giggles and laughs, and yet the look in her eye is focused, determined. She sends him a hearty wave before she is blinking her way down an ageless bridge made of stone. He realizes he has his hand raised to the screen before she had even disappeared.

The film catches, stops. He is aware of feeling somewhat peeved, but he had no idea how to make the images move once more. So he was left in darkness, sitting in a hall that had too many empty chairs.

Abruptly, there is light. Not from the screen, but rather from a small doorway. It beckons to him, much like exits do when a film has ended. He feels himself standing and numbly trudge over the distance. He cannot see beyond the white light, doesn’t know what lies on the other side but the sound of crashing waves and sunshine warmth. But as he nears the threshold there is a loud crack, a stutter.

And one last image comes onto the screen.

He is already so close, but he moves closer, up to the wall, to trace a hand over the image of rich chocolate skin, of chestnut brown eyes lined with gold threads. The man in the image is not sad, but neither is he happy, he stares at the soldier and the weary man stares back. Then it begins to move.

It zooms out and he can see the black regalia with a leather hooded coat and shotgun shells on a kevlar armoured chest. He sees fire and snow, their hissing loud in the darkened room as they attempt to touch the other. How the white pearly flakes spiral in the air, waltzing with dazzling fire seeds that crackle with rhythm. He sees lying at the corner of the film, a trusty handgun whole and tired. It is not scarred, but it lies as if damaged, empty. Perhaps it is.

 _Jack_.

The man in the screen must be shouting, with all the force he exerts but yet all Jack could hear was the barest whisper, the passing of wind. The screen shakes, shifts. The projection clatters and creaks to accommodate and he hears it again.

 _Jack_.

It’s louder this time, but still foggy he feels. He watches as the man in the screen’s eyes narrow, grow wide - panic and desperation worming into his features. He seems to reach a hand towards him, the viewer. But it doesn’t break the screen, it stops short. And the Soldier stares at it; the callused palm, the silver-gilded talons that adorn the tip of his fingers. They twitch, beckoning.

But he shakes his head.

Takes a step back.

And leaves the cinema.

* * *

 

_ No _

He wouldn’t. He would.

The blue eyes are dull, the lines along his face soft as feathered down. The soldier’s body is battered and bloodied, not a single patch of skin is left unmarked by bruises, not a single stretch unmarred by scars. His back is at an awkward angle, an angle the wraith does not wish to acknowledge.

Gabriel, the Reaper, shakes the shoulder gently, then harder. He snarls at the unmoving body, yells at it, curses with all the words he had ever been taught but Jack remains still in his arms. He doesn’t know why he tries. After all, Gabriel had watched the soul, with an almost casual shake of its bobbing crimson head, step back, and away.

From him.

Jack wouldn’t. Jack would.

Gabriel always thought they would kill each other, shatter each other until they were but dust. Morrison never gave him any reason to think otherwise.

But he knows. He  _ knew _ .

* * *

 

The stars were out in full tonight, not a speck of cloud to block their ethereal light from the field of grass and stone that stretched for miles. There were many stories up there, stories a young boy with gold hair once told to a dark man in the silence of a room. He used to talk about those stories and the people in those stories like they meant something to him, perhaps they did. But for now there was only one story that truly mattered and that story was here, on Earth - and it had to be brought to its conclusion. With a single hand, Lena tightened the scarf around her neck. The night was cold and her breath appeared in plump puffs of vapour around her mouth. The frosty breeze nipped at her legs and prickled her ears where she had forgotten her hat. But she did not let any of it stop her.

Reaching her destination, the young girl took a moment to look over the granite stone set deep amongst the swaying grass. They sashay their green heads, pulled this way and then that by the playful wind. In a way, Lena finds it fitting. It could never compare of course, to the sounds the towering stalks of gold in a field faraway made, but perhaps it would be enough.

Kneeling down, she procured a folded napkin from a pocket and from it’s soft depths fished out a slender piece of tassel. Gently, the young girl laid it on the stone of her friend, weighing it down with a rounded pebble she had admired for its gleam.

“A soldier’s life, Jack.” She said to no one in particular “A soldier’s life.”

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, discarded draft, there were loads of bits and pieces I cut out to make the draft a bit more coherent but it lacks the structure and 'plotty' stuff of the original.  
> If you're wondering why I take so long to write anything, its because of stuff like this xD


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